


Restless Hearts

by starkind



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Bruce Wayne is Not Batman, Bruce Wayne's Sad Backstory, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Explicit Language, F/M, Gun Violence, Minor Character Death, Natasha Romanov Backstory, Out of Character, With A Twist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2019-11-27 04:37:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18189869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkind/pseuds/starkind
Summary: Sometimes, you find allies in the darkest of places.An AU (one-shot?) where Natasha Romanov and Bruce Wayne end up becoming renegade hitmen. Safe to say, this strays very far from (DC) canon. Please check the tags to see if it fits your macros.





	1. Chapter 1

_Soviet Union, 1986_

 

Американец. [American]

  
That was the first thing Natalia Romanova learned about him.

She was 11 when she got brought into the covert Soviet agency called Отдел X [Department X], together with 27 other orphaned little girls. They were about to take part in the Black Widow Ops program; a program whose main focus was on building an army of elite female sleeper agents.

People called her Natasha - the proper diminutive for her name - but it always left her feeling submissive.

Rumor had it her father, whom she had no recognition of, had been of American descent. Natasha was the only girl able to understand English before they were taught to speak it by the agency. As expected, there was a lot of hostility towards her because of her potential biracial heritage.

Maybe it was one of the reasons she sided with the Американец from the beginning.

The boy's real name was Bruce Wayne; he was 14 and supposed to be the lone heir of a wealthy US industrialist couple. After assassinating his parents right in front of his eyes, the group of Widows responsible for the assault on the Waynes had taken the traumatized and catatonic boy along instead of pulling the trigger. It had, ultimately, cost all of them their lives, but the leaders of Department X eventually saw the potential.

They shaved the boy's head and put him up against the strongest and most savage instructors of a group of five boys called the Winter Soldiers. They were taller, older, and heavier than him, moreover enhanced by some super-human serum which made them near invincible in battle. Many times, Natasha watched them train out on the yard, dragging their victim through the mud, bloodied and beaten.

Still, Bruce endured.

He persisted, despite all odds and attempts at breaking his mind and body.

So did Natasha, facing all the hardships of the brutal Black Widow Program.

Over the course of the next five years, she and Bruce became friends. She would tend to his wounds after an especially brutal training session and taught him to master the Russian language. He helped her learn to drive stick shift vehicles and how to scale obstacles taller than herself.

The Winter Soldier program came to an abrupt stop when one of them went berserk, killing his four colleagues in cold blood and fleeing the compound, never to be seen again. The agency thus decided to not make the mistake of subjecting their remaining assassin to the serum.

At age 19, Bruce Wayne, codename The Bat, had grown from a frightened little boy into a superb assassin and master strategist.

No one dared to call him Американец anymore, not if they wanted to live. He tackled all kinds of covert wetwork missions with the same sense of efficiency and cruelty. To his handlers and any outsiders, the Bat was like a machine; showing no mercy and even less decipherable feelings.

The only person he was always gentle with was Natasha.

When it was time for her to finalize her training after turning 16, she was faced with sterilizing surgery; a procedure all graduates had to endure. Removing the ability to bear children was supposed to make the Widows solely focus on their missions and turn them into merciless machines. Once Bruce found out about her upcoming fate, he went and shot all of the surgeons and doctors before they were able to lay a hand on her.

Knowing their days at the agency were ultimately doomed, the two of them left a bloody trail behind as they escaped into the night, mere weeks before the dissolution of the Soviet Union on December 26th, 1991.  
  
~~~

Bruce pulled the woolen hat deeper over his ears. It had holes and was not insulated, and the cold bit right through the mottled fabric, but it was the best he had managed to scrounge up. Natasha returned from the ticket booth on the windy platform, clutching two tickets in her hand.

They had loitered around Moscow central station for a while, keeping an eye out for eventual followers and pickpocketing money to be able to buy some food and two cheap tickets to Minsk. “Half an hour until the train arrives.” He nodded and took the ticket she held out into his direction. As he brushed her frozen fingers he proceeded to take them into his own; trying to massage warmth into them.

Natasha drew back, stuffed them into the pocket of her thin overcoat, and met his youthful scowl with equal petulance. “Stop treating me like a girl.” Bruce's thin, chapped lips twisted. “You are a girl, silly.” Annoyed at his patronizing ways, Natasha swung around. “I could cut off your balls with a blunt spoon.” He followed her, a sparse grin the only indicator of the adolescent he actually was. “Not with your numb hands.”

Bruce allowed her to bump him with her shoulder as they headed towards the far end of the platform.

They spent the time huddling on a bench with rotten wooden planks, waiting for the train to arrive.

Minsk welcomed them with a giant statue of V. I. Lenin in the central square and portraits of Lenin and Karl Marx on the walls of nearly all stores or hotels they passed by. They wolfed down pancakes with fried fat and composite jelly at a cheap hostel before curling up against each other on a ratty cot, eventually giving in to their bone-numbing tiredness.

A train rattled by somewhere in the distance. Its squealing brakes woke Natasha from her light sleep. Her eyes darted around the dark premises, heart hammering in her chest as she tried to remember where she was. Next to her, there was movement and a whiff of something familiar.

“What's wrong?”

Bruce sat up, his shifting allowing an unpleasant gust of cold air to seep under their thin, stale blanket.

“I wanna go home.”

It was that low, clipped tone of his which made her prop herself up and regard the shape of him. Eventually, she nodded.

“да.” [Yes.]

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of this fic inspired by the song 'Restless Heart' by John Parr (1992) and its lyrics: 
> 
> When the world you knew got shattered, you and me were all that mattered  
> Just one way I'm gonna lose this restless heart - running away with you


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> non-graphic mentions of m/f

Their journey from Minsk to the States was strenuous and time-consuming. The risk of being followed kept them anxious and alert at all times. They took a route from Lithuania to Poland where they hid away on a container vessel of a Polish Baltic shipping company headed for Copenhagen. A crew member found them after embarking, but instead of being thrown overboard, they were able to work for their stay during the passage.

Jobs were available in the engine room, the deck, and the galley. Natasha got a job in the kitchen, dishwashing and preparing food for the crew. With regards to his stats and abilities, Bruce was put on deck duty, helping out to grease lashing gear, chip rust, and painting fixtures. His working hours were less early than hers but physically more demanding, and when they did meet up at their small bunk, they usually fell asleep on the spot.

Once they reached Denmark, they used some of their hard-earned money to buy two tickets to New York. Finding shelter was not that easy, but having a bit of money helped. Soon, a small, ratty apartment served as a humble abode against the cold and unknown menaces of the big city.

It was 1992 and everything was alien to both of them; the food, the music, the fashion, the lifestyle.

17-year-old Natasha worked hard on adapting to the English language without too much of an accent and went out to explore the city. She scrounged up appropriate clothes for them, started dying her hair into a dark maroon, and took up a job at a pizza delivery shop where she helped folding pizza boxes.

Oftentimes she brought pizza along for dinner, telling Bruce about her day, her colleagues who were all-American students, and the customers who were rude on the phone. Bruce was wary of anyone and anything, but most of all, wary of living with a female who overwhelmed him. No amount of assassin's training could have prepared him for that sort of life.

The topic of female hygiene made him uncomfortable, as did the way her body began to grow into its womanly curves. He tried to keep his distance, but it was impossible to do so when the nights were cold and Natasha pressed up against him for warmth like they used to do back in the days. Bruce tried for indifference, but his hormone-laden, adolescent body would not stop betraying him, no matter what.

He resented to jerking off in the shower as often as possible, just like had seen the other males at the compound do back in the days. Natasha still found out about it one day and called him a dirty pig. It resulted in him storming off, miffed at being accused even though he had only meant well.

He got into a fistfight that night, going up against six guys who were not drunk enough to make things too easy. Bruce still managed not to kill anyone but dished out well; hot white anger fueling his punches. When he got back home, bleeding profusely from his nose and split lip, Natasha was there to patch him up. She called him an idiot in Russian, but the dabbing to his bruised face was gentle.

~~~

Once her 18th  birthday was coming up, she requested to celebrate and get drunk. Bruce admonished her of still being underage even if she was considered legal in Russia. Natasha called him a couple of things and as a result, he went and bought a bottle of vodka, being of legal age himself.

In return, Natasha fully enjoyed his frown and blush at her haul, seeing she had gone and stolen a pack of cigarettes as well as condoms from a convenience store. Up to that point, she had never seen him getting intimate with a girl during their time together, and Bruce's initial reaction proved her right.

Ears red he went and poured them both a quite generous amount of liquor, only to cough and pull a face at the burning sensation down his throat. Natasha flat out laughed at his face. She had been subjected to alcohol at a young age. Seeing him glower, however, she went and mixed his drink with ginger ale. They toasted each other and that time, Bruce seemed to be more sympathetic to the taste. She held up the cigarette pack.

“Want a smoke?”

He shook his head and watched her slip a cigarette in between her lips. Bruce chugged a large portion of his drink and fumbled with the small transistor radio the previous tenants had left. At the tinny sounds of a female singer Natasha got up, cigarette in one hand, plastic cup in the other.

“C'mon, dance with me.”  
  
_If this world is wearing thin_  
_And you're thinking of escape_  
_I'll go anywhere with you_  
_Just wrap me up in chains_  
_But if you try to go alone_  
_Don't think I'll understand_

_Stay with me_

Once more, Bruce brought the cup to his lips and averted his eyes as she began to sway her hips. "нет." [No.] When she settled down into his lap and straddled him, it almost caused him to drop his cup. “Behave yourself.” At his growled admonishment she dropped her smoldering stub into the remains of his vodka. It fizzled out with a soft hiss. “Not tonight. It's my birthday, no? I should be granted a wish.”

He pointed at the bottle he had bought to which she put their cups aside and took his face in between her hands. “Поцелуй меня” [Kiss me]. When she leaned in, his mouth remained stiff and unmoving as she pressed her lips against it. Natasha thus bit into his bottom lip, not enough to make it bleed, just enough to make him give a soft gasp, allowing her to slip her tongue between his teeth. Once she released him, he was flushed.

“Tasha, I...”  
With a shake of her head, she took one of his hands and put it against one of her breasts.  
“I want you to fuck me.”

Things progressed fast after that. When they fumbled over to the bed, Bruce's arousal was hard against her thigh as their clumsy hands groped and reached for the pack of condoms. Their first time was over after six minutes, leaving Bruce panting and mumbling Russian apologies into her ear. As they lay side by side, Bruce took a few experimental puffs from the cigarette she had lit. “That was amazing. Can we do it again?”

Amused at his question, Natasha looked at him. “Of course.” She lit up another cigarette and gave it to him, and that time he took it and started smoking. Bruce turned on his side, propped his head up with a hand, and held the smoldering stub in his other. “I really want to make you come.”

Twenty minutes later, Natasha rolled him onto his back, more confident at handling those parts of him that had been foreign to her before, and set the pace herself. “Ты прекрасна.” [You're beautiful] His breathless voice was full of wonder. Even though she did not climax, she was close enough to show him how to pleasure her with his hands until she, too, cried out in pleasure.

Since that night, she called him Душа моя [My soul] in private, enjoying the fierce way his usually dull eyes lit up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song/lyrics mentioned in this chapter by Shakespeare's Sister called 'Stay' (released January 1992)


	3. Chapter 3

_New York, 1999_  
  
  
“Any preferences for the next one?”

A deep baritone interrupted her browsing. From where Natasha had been immersed in the contents of the file in front, she glimpsed up from the hotel bed. Bruce came out of the bathroom, toweling his hair. He was bare-chested and wearing a pair of boxer briefs. The scars that littered his 6'1 body were witnesses of the time at the facility as well as countless dangerous jobs that had involved brawn and not just brains.

Truth was, Natasha could not ask for a more capable, trustworthy partner. It did not hurt that Bruce had grown into a tall and formidable-looking man with chiseled facial features. All cheeky, she put the file on the nightstand, rolled onto her side, and propped her head up to ogle his athletic physique. “You going down on me sounds like a good start.” Bruce put the towel around his shoulders with a very condescending smirk.

"I was talking about the setup for the job, you nympho.”

He stopped in front of her and put his arms akimbo. “When you passed out after the third orgasm, I thought you'd be thoroughly fucked for the night.” At eye-level with his crotch, Natasha reached up to palm his bulge through his briefs, feeling his skin still radiating warmth from the shower. “You know me. I see the goods, I cannot help but to get inspired.” Bruce dropped the towel from his shoulders onto her head.  
  
“Except we have a job to do. Run your list by me again. Including the floorplan.”

Bruce and Natasha had become lovers first and freelance-assassins later; after almost two years on the run from potential former agency members and fellow black widows out for their blood. They got rid of all ghosts from the past, but their trust issues convinced them not to work for anyone but themselves ever again, even if it sometimes meant having to take on ridiculous jobs as guns for hire.

Natasha's aliases included many American ones for the sake of blending in. Natalie Rushman, Laura Matthers, Mary Farrell, Claire Voyant – as different as these characters were, all of them had the same goal: Get in close, exterminate target, get out without fail.

With a nimble move, she twirled the damp towel into a sling and whacked his firm backside with it as he walked past her to hunker down in front of his suitcase. They never unpacked during missions, always prepared to leave at a moment's notice. Natasha got up with a languishing full body stretch of all of her 5'6 glory and enjoyed the side-eying glance he gave her bra-less tank top and short-shorts getup.

“Natalie Rushman sounds like she could get the job done, don't you think?”  
  
With a derisive snort, Bruce slipped a fresh magazine into his trusted Desert Eagle. “She always gets the job done because she's a slut.” His list of aliases was just as colorful as hers, even if he rarely got to use it. At the certain kind of jealousy that swung within his retort, Natasha allowed a tiny smirk to escape her lips. “Aw, B, the green-eyed monster again? Cannot stand it if other guys get some of this?”

In a swift move, his arm was around her slim waist and pulled her so close she almost winced. “Shut up, Tash.” She gripped him by the balls and enjoyed the involuntary jerk he gave in return. “So make me.” His kiss was as ferocious as their fourth coupling of the night, up against the wall.

~

Bruce's specialties included stealth, night operations, handling heavy weaponry, and hand-to-hand as well as vehicular combat. What he was not specialized in was handling the way Natasha used her body as a weapon while she made him stand by and watch. The current target was a fat mid-fifties guy with meaty hands, hands which had nothing to do on the backside of the beautiful lady he had encountered at the art gala.

Montgomery Barrington, 56, married with no kids, CEO of a medium-sized pet food company, was a sleazeball par excellence. He also was double-dealing with the local mafia and had already thrown many smaller businesses under the bus. Natasha would lure him into position so that Bruce could take care of the rest. Their in-ear comms remained open during the whole time, which had been Bruce's fixed condition.

It ultimately left him no choice but to hear the small hitches of breath Natasha gave, as well as her hushed conversation as she made her way through the vast location, Barrington by her side.

“I’m in.”  
  
Those were the first words Bruce had uttered after ten minutes of tense, stowing silence. “Waiting on you, Tash.” She breathed a rather dissatisfied hum in his ear, indicating him to wait for her signal. After another few minutes of shuffling, her deep voice resonated in his ear.

“Go.”

On cue, Bruce slid down the rooftop ventilation shaft and started crawling along the main circulation tunnel. A small black box caught his attention and stopped him in his tracks. “Problem?” Natasha had picked up on his annoyed breathing, despite being surrounded by music and chatter.

“Motion sensor.”

Bruce inched forward in a controlled motion. He seethed to himself about the idiocy of installing a motion sensor in a ventilation shaft where vermin could set it off before his gloved fingers started to dismantle it without a commotion. “Sensor offline.” Natasha did not comment further. The sound of clinking flutes came through his comm. Bruce continued to maneuver on until he reached the junction in question.

He slowly pulled the multi-tool from the breast pocket of his overall as nimble fingers began undoing the bolts on one side. Once they gave way, Bruce pulled the panel aside without exposing more than two-inch diameter. It took him fifteen seconds to get the folding rifle from his back assembled and into position. He closed one eye as the crosshairs of the sniper rifle found the subject in question. And scowled into the dark.

“Tell that lardass to take his dirty paws off of you.”

“Stay on target.”

Her patronizing mumble made him grit her teeth.

“I'm in position.”

Through the crosshairs, Bruce continued to watch how Natasha wound out of the roaming grip Barrington had on her lower back and leaned in to mumble something in his ear. Barrington responded with a nod and a slap to her behind, and Bruce gritted his teeth hard enough to chip enamel. As soon as she had made her way over to the alleged restrooms, two muffled pops echoed through the air, and there was a lot of red.

As soundless as he had arrived, Bruce retreated through the labyrinth of air vents, folding rifle tucked on his back.

“Drop on in.”

Outside the venue, an unremarkable black sedan pulled up at the back entrance. As soon as he had slipped onto the passenger seat, Natasha pulled back into the traffic with maddening calmness. Her dark red dress with decent frills at the front was cinched up high, revealing a lot of bare skin and lace stilettoes. As sirens began to wail behind them, she caught him glimpsing at her legs even though his eyes remained cold as ice.

“You know I hate to see that.”

He spoke in Russian, almost spitting out the words. She pursed her lips and reached for the rear-view mirror to adjust it single-handedly. “I thought you liked ass and titties.” Bruce drew his gun while his other hand grabbed her thigh. “Not like that.” His grip was strong enough to bruise for a split second before he eased up. “I should kill them all before they get to lay so much as a finger on you.” His growl was possessive.

Natasha curled her garishly red lips.  
“You'll get over it.”  
Her voice held a cynical touch that went well with her lopsided smirk.  
  
“And now shut up and take me to dinner, Bats.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

A few weeks later, Natasha sat at the table of their small apartment sorting through a folder filled with notes and paper clippings. Most of them were handwritten except for a few typed emails. Those, Natasha put onto a separate pile since they required getting access to a computer at one of the many cyber cafés that had bloomed all over the city in the past year. It was a risky business, but the anonymity of the net had its perks.

She paused to sip on her steaming mug filled with Earl Gray tea and looked out of the small kitchen window onto the bleak parking lot of a washing salon. New York was slowly transcending from autumn into winter, and their apartment was badly insulated. Instead of spending their hard-earned money on a luxurious condo, they chose to lay low as to minimize having to leave everything behind should a deal turn bad.

Usually, she was the one who sought out potential new clients seeing Bruce abhorred contact with strangers except if he was behind the scope of a sniper rifle. Natasha had become well-versed with masquerading, conning, and finding ways to drop and deliver messages in nothing more than a fleeting exchange at a public metro station or Central Park, with Bruce remaining her stoic shadow in the nights, guarding her back.

Shifting so that she was able to tug her cold left foot underneath her right thigh, Natasha glanced from the current slip of paper over to the map of New York she had spread out all over the tiny round table. Behind her, movement erupted, followed by the sound of the refrigerator being opened and closed in a short interval. "If you wanted to eat dinner, you're shit outta luck." Bruce sounded petulant. Natasha gave a melodic hum.

"Go get us something from Indo Cho."

He started to rummage through their alcove pantry behind the tacky flower curtain instead. Seconds later, an opened pack of beef jerky landed in front of her. Natasha merely raised an eyebrow at it before she resumed her diligent work. "Nutritious." Bruce's silhouette appeared in her line of view when he held an old, recycled mustard glass under the faucet, downed its contents and repeated the gesture a second time.

“Go get it yourself, I'm off to check something out."

Without bothering to look up from the location her pen was fixating on the map, Natasha gave a quiet snort.

"That's my job."

"Not if it looks like someone's tracked us down.”

That got him her attention and she paused to look up at him.

“No one's capable of.”

"If he's had the same training, then yes.”

One look at his face told Natasha whom he was talking about. Concern furrowed her brows as she put the pen down.

“How?”

“That's what I'm going to find out.”

He walked past her to crouch down and reach for their hidden arsenal underneath the wooden planks in the living room. Natasha leaned against the door frame and watched him rifle through the well-stocked inventory. “We, you mean.” Bruce's expert hands checked and loaded his Desert Eagle sidearm. “No.” He got up and slipped the gun into his shoulder holster. When he made a move to slip past her, she grabbed him by his bicep.

"ты не пойдешь один." [You're not going alone]  
  
Bruce's sharp gaze traveled from the bruising grip around his arm up to drill into her eyes.  
  
“Pick one of the pending jobs. I'll be back in less than 12 hours.”

“And what if you're not?”

“Take the money and disappear without looking back.”

His voice was a fraction off from its usual sound. It was stiff and monotone and meant he was already in assassin mode. Natasha frowned at the way he felt miles away from her; too tall, too broad-shouldered, too stern. It reduced her to something she was not, and fueled her anger even as she released him with a shove. He tried to cup her cheek and lean in for a final kiss but Natasha drew back.

“ебать тебя.” [Fuck you]

They glared at each other before Bruce brushed past her with his jaw locked.

“выкуси." [Suck it up]  


+

As soon as the door had clicked shut behind him, Natasha took a few calming breaths to avoid wreaking havoc on their small apartment. Instead, she bundled up in as many warm layers as possible, grabbed her gun, and went to take out her anger at the private and illegal shooting range they had discovered several blocks away from their apartment in an abandoned junkyard, glad to find the area empty due to the cold weather.

She ended up emptying two magazines into an innocent old tree trunk, using her silencer to avoid a run-in with the police before heading back to their apartment to clean her firearm and sit over the potential job list with a cup of instant noodles and a bottle of cheap vodka. Around 1 am she was drunk enough to fall asleep on the couch, only to wake at 8:47 am without a hangover but to a still empty living space.

However, there was a blanket draped over her form, and Bruce's combat boots he had worn last night were haphazardly chucked into the corner. Gritting her teeth, Natasha went to shower and brush her teeth, irritation returning with vigor. She put on two pair of socks, a clean sweater and matching track pants before heading for the kitchen. It was 9:30 when she heard the familiar sound of a key turning in the lock.

Soft but steady footsteps came closer until she sensed he was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Undeterred, Natasha continued to pour milk into the small plastic bowl, not sparing him a glance or paying him any mind. A quiet shuffle and the click of the bathroom door followed a few moments later, and the pipes could be heard making the telltale banging noise when someone was using the shower.

By the time he returned she was running water from the sink into the empty granola bowl. A whiff of his shower gel hit her nose and Natasha exhaled. “Where the hell have you been?” At that, he moved to hug her from behind. “Went for a run.” At the first touch, Natasha shrugged him off though he did not seem to care. “If you're expecting breakfast you’re shit outta luck.” He brushed her hair aside to kiss her neck. “I don't.”

His other hand slipped under her shirt to cup her breast. “Я тебя хочу” [I want you] As if on cue, a distinctive bulge pressed against her backside. “Guilty conscience?” Natasha pushed his hands away, eliciting a growled sigh. “No, horny as fuck.” She harrumphed and pushed again.

“Not interested.”

She felt Bruce's smirk spread against the tender flesh of her nape. “You sure?” His hand roamed lower, slipping below the waistband of her sweatpants and he growled again upon finding her panty-less. “Because your pussy tells me otherwise.” Natasha braced her balled fists against the counter. “I’m still mad at you, asshole.” With one efficient tug, he had yanked her pants down. “Let me make it up to you then.”

Before he was able to do anything else she swirled around, freed herself from his grip and prepared to deck him for his audacity. Bruce caught her fist within a palm that came up almost too fast for her to see. “You want to fuck or fight, Tash?” Upon the condescending curl of his lips, her face twisted with ire.

“Isn't it all the same to you?”

At that, his expression changed and he moved with almost furious intent. His large hands wrapped around her torso and pressed her against the closest wall. Natasha felt the tiles against her shoulder blades as Bruce invaded her mouth; tongue and teeth showcasing his urgent desire. He fucked her hard and fast against the wall right there, fingers digging into her buttocks until he came with a low, animalistic growl.

Natasha's own breathing was distorted, her vision hazy and clouded by lust.

She still felt him inside her and ground down on him in a need so desperate, she almost hated herself. Bruce's hand then reached in between them just as he raised his head to look at her from underneath too long, still damp bangs. He really needed to get a haircut, she mused, as strange a thought that was. It vanished when his thumb rubbed over her most sensitive parts, finally rendering her boneless within seconds.

When her feet were back on solid ground, he put his arms left and right of her head against the wall, holding her in place.

“It's not. Not with you. Never with you.”

His breath was warm against the shell of her ear before he nuzzled into the skin on her neck.

+

Later, she dropped a ceramic mug filled with black coffee and no sugar in front of him on the hastily-cleared table. The piece of furniture was just big enough for both of them and served as many purposes as possible - it was a dining table, weaponry workbench, and working desk for all things administrative. They each took a careful first sip, but when he did not make a move to speak, her sock-clad toes kicked his shin.

“So?”  
  
Bruce put the mug down, carefully thumbing a chipped area on its rim.  
  
“He's looked for a passage to Washington. I doubt he's on to us.”

Natasha hummed around her own cup. She had started to buy instant coffee after Bruce said he preferred its strong flavor to their regular black tea in the mornings. Sometimes, Natasha would indulge him and try the bitter concoction as well, even if she always ended up adding milk to make it drinkable. “Did he spot you?” His rotten glare spoke volumes. He pointed his chin over at the kitchen counter. “Decided on the next job?”

She nodded and reached over to fetch the abandoned stack of papers. After a bit of a shuffle, she pulled something from the pile. “Payment's secure. No preferred method, so we can decide. Just make it look like an accident.” Nodding along, Bruce thumbed through the few pages including contact details from their client as well as the potential target. Upon fastening his eyes on the final page, however, his body went rigid.

A small picture of their target had been tacked to the top right section with a paperclip, showing an older, white male.

The name underneath read 'Pennyworth, Alfred Thaddeus.'

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Descriptions of physical violence to a minor character, resulting in death. Please read at own discretion.

When the little picture stopped swimming in front of his eyes, Bruce wet his lips and forced his beating heart under control. “Why did you pick this one?” His voice was thick with an unidentified emotion. Natasha glanced down at the picture of their target outside on the street, wearing a woolen coat and looking at something not directly lined up with the camera. “Because it's an easy little number with no strings attached." 

Inwardly grimacing at her wrongful assumptions, Bruce kept his face even. “Who is your contact?” Natasha turned the paper around to read up on her additional notes. “The kill order came from a certain William Earle." Underneath the table, Bruce's right leg began to twitch; a nervous habit he had fought hard to get eradicated during his years at Department X. “What company does he work for?”

Natasha took the second page he was not looking at and skimmed along the notes. “A subsidiary of a big insurance chain here in New York." Bruce reobtained control over his restless leg, though his gaze never tore from the grainy picture of their target. “I think he's from Gotham City.” Her eyes widened in surprise. “How can you be so sure? The bastard is listed as a resident in Manhattan.” Bruce's eyes narrowed.

“In any case, something's wrong.”

Natasha's hand touched his.

“We don't have to do this-”

When he found her gaze, his eyes were calm and deadly.

“No, I want to. Organize a meeting to finalize the deal.”

+

That night, Bruce was unable to find sleep. He lay awake on his back, eyes on the ceiling, and traced the patterns from the neon lights falling through the curtains. Next to him, Natasha's soft breathing was a steady, reassuring sound, as was her left hand which was cupping his private parts even in her sleep. She had told him she slept better like that, and Bruce enjoyed the touches even without them leading to sex.

In the distance, police car sirens could be heard, but Natasha merely stirred. Bruce's mind wandered back.

“ _Alfie, look! My plane can fly!”_

_11-year-old Bruce Wayne ran across the vast green acres of the Wayne estate, holding a silver Spitfire model plane high above his head in one hand. Once he reached the edge of a hill, he released it with a mighty throwing motion and watched how it glided through the air all by itself._

“ _Alfie, see? It flies!”_

_The butler, currently serving a round of afternoon tea and biscuits on the terrace, stopped and smiled at the scene. “I see it, Master Bruce.” Thomas Wayne looked up from his papers and threw his son a reproachful glance.“Bruce, his name is Alfred, not Alfie. It is rude not to address people by their rightful names.” The dark-haired boy stopped running and watched the plane take a nosedive into the grass. “Yes, father.”_

_Thomas Wayne's stern expression lessened. “Good. Now go bring your plane back into its hangar and get ready for your piano lessons. Your mother already awaits you in the study.” Bruce did as he was told, trotting inside with his plane under an arm. On his way back downstairs, he then saw the butler standing in the doorway of the kitchen, beckoning him over with a mischievous expression and a finger on his lips._

_Curious, and with an eye and ear out for his mother a few rooms further down the corridor, Bruce tiptoed over._ “ _Here, Master Bruce.”_ _A thick chocolate-chip cookie was held out into his direction.“This shall be our secret.” Nodding along, Bruce grabbed it and took a bite before remembering his manners. “Thank you, Alfie, uh, I mean... Alfred.” He stopped as his pale cheeks colored anew with youthful embarrassment._

 _The butler gave an affectionate pat to his hair, smiling at the boy who nibbled at the_ _still-warm cookie._

_“We will keep that another secret between the two of us.”_

+

Their arrival in Gotham City was accompanied by a heavy downpour. Driving through the narrow streets, windshield wipers going at a steady pace, Bruce stared ahead, trying for a familiar feel but failing. The only thing his first visit to his hometown in over a decade left him with was that it had become a city as dark and violent as the compound in the USSR he had grown up in. Without taking his eyes off the road, he spoke.

“You told him to come alone and with the money?”

Natasha's snort was quiet, but clear regarding her opinion of their contact person.

“I doubt he'll play ball, so I'll be doing a security sweep of the surrounding area.”

Bruce nodded and used the turn signal to head into a dead-end street to park their unobtrusive rental car. So far, he had kept his true feelings hidden from Natasha, and intended to do so until the very last second. Until he could be sure. Until he saw with his own eyes.

His clandestine research had given him insights on how William Earle was well on his way to obtain total control of the Wayne Enterprises conglomerate. Apparently, the only obstacle in his way was a certain Alfred Pennyworth – the last living assertor of the deceased Wayne family – who refused to make way for Earle.

Already left with a desperate need for vengeance, Bruce had learned that on top of things, William Earle had also played a major part in the orchestration of his parents' assassination back in the days. Back in the present, Bruce slipped the car keys over to his partner and checked for his gun. Natasha did the same, and Bruce cast her a sideways glance before going back to scan the dark alleyway in front of them.

“Be careful. This might be a trap.”

Natasha's eye roll was an affectionate one as she screwed a suppressor onto her SIG Sauer P226. It had been Bruce's latest birthday gift, and become her favorite sidearm ever since. “I'm not the one without a silencer, Bats.”

He gave a lenient smile and waited until she had faded out into the night, silent and stealthy as ever. In truth, Bruce wanted noise. He wanted noise and blood and an excruciatingly slow death to go with his personal vendetta. However, his assassin's training got the better of him, and so he prepared his own arsenal and went to pick a tactical hiding spot to lie in ambush. As matters stood, he did not have to wait long.

A single pair of footsteps entered the alley five minutes before their actual rendezvous time. Observing the man from his vantage point for ten more minutes, watching him becoming more anxious by the second, Bruce let the games begin.

“Earle.”

The flat, male voice echoed through the dark alley. The man in question swung around, straining to see against the dark, but not succeeding.

“Who is there?”

“Someone who knows all about you.”

The older man squinted through the drizzle of rain as he kept on turning to make out the faceless voice. The way he clung to the front of his coat told Bruce everything he needed to know. “Drop the gun.” Earle hesitated, so Bruce fired a warning shot right in front of his feet. Earle all but jumped, and there was a metal clatter on asphalt. “I am not alone.” Earle's voice shook, even if he fought to make it sound steady and self-assured.

At that, Bruce stepped out of the shadows. Even in the single street lamp from the corner, his features nevertheless remained obscured by the drawn-down visor of the baseball hat he wore and the hooded jacket above it. He kicked the firearm on the ground further down the alley, and it slithered into a pile of overflowing trash bags, not to be retrieved. “Doesn't matter. You will die alone tonight, like the traitorous bastard you are.”

In a knee-jerk reaction, Earle tried to turn and run, but that was when Bruce reached for the knife in its sheath. The blade pierced a calf muscle, and Earle dropped down to the floor with a scream, clutching at his leg. Like a panther circling its prey, Bruce stepped up to where he writhed on the dirty ground, expensive overcoat soiled and soaking wet. With a nimble move, Bruce knelt down to reach for his knife.

“Make another sound and I'll blow your brains out.”

He removed it with a quick yank and switched it for his Desert Eagle. Slowly, Bruce then straightened back up, standing above Earle in a wide, assured stance, gun in one hand. His other hand then reached up to flip back the hood of his jacket and lift the visor of his hat enough for Earle to see his face. “Remember me?” Incomprehension shone back at him, superseded by fear. It deepened the scowl on Bruce's face.

“You always gave me caramel candy when I came along to visit my father at the office.”

The moment everything seemed to fall into place on Earle's face was accompanied by a look of pure horror.

“Wayne? Bruce Wayne?! You're supposed to be dead!”

The kick to the face came instantly, and Earle wheezed and groaned in agony. Bruce never flinched once.

“That's where you're wrong.”

Earle stared up at him with frantic eyes; face now completely ashen except for where a red rivulet from a laceration in his eyebrow ran down and mingled with the rain, prompting him to blink rapidly. “I don't know what you're talking about, I was told that there was an accident and that neither of you surv-”

“Shut the fuck up.”

The Desert Eagle drilled into the flesh of his forehead.

“You ordered the kill on my parents. Say it.”

Earle whimpered as the first click of the gun was, in fact, an empty round.

“Please! Bruce! It wasn't my fault, I was trying to-”

The hammer was pulled again with a soft clicking sound.

“Say it to my face and I might let you live.”

“YES!”

By now, Earle was a sobbing, pathetic mess, crawling at his feet. Emotionless, Wayne looked at him over the muzzle of his semi-automatic.

“Rot in hell.”

Another shot rang through the dark of the night. A dog barked through the silence that set in, and that was when Natasha walked into the alley to inspect the slumped figure at his feet.

“Are you alright?”  
  
She spoke Russian and did not initiate physical comfort. He pocketed his gun with a curt, grim nod.  
  
“For now.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

Jerry's 24/7 Diner was a run-down place smelling of rancid grease and stale nicotine. An overweight guy stood behind the bar, fumbling around the register while a bearded cook with a ratty bandana watched him from behind the stained partition window to the kitchen. Lights were sparse, though unpleasantly cold and of neon quality. They slid into the last booth in the corner, close to the emergency exit and the restrooms.

Natasha glanced at the stained menu on the table without touching it while Bruce scanned the rest of their surroundings. A young couple, most likely junkies, sat in the opposite corner of them, coffee cups on the table and rather deep in discussion. They appeared to be strung out but not bent on any trouble.

A waitress in her late-forties with garish makeup and tired eyes approached them. Natasha ordered a bottle of soda and an ounce pack of salt&vinegar chips while Bruce grunted his request for black coffee, no sugar. Once they were alone, she slipped her palms in between her thighs for warmth and studied him for the longest time. After he kept on averting her gaze, she spoke up.

"Wanna tell me what this was all about?”  
He tore his dissecting glare away from the couple to focus on her.  
“Saving ourselves trouble.”  
  
Natasha's lips curled on her own accord, but she held back whatever was on the tip of her tongue seeing the waitress was making her way over to them, orders on a chipped plastic tray. She thought about the money Earle had on him when they frisked him. It was far less than what had been agreed upon, and in a way, Bruce was right. Before they had left, they had taken his wallet and watch to make it look like a simple mugging.

Leaving no fingerprints behind, Earle would end up a cold case in the police files. Still, Natasha knew her partner too well. Knew the tension in his shoulders from the way his fingers clenched around the mug. The soda bottle opened with a soft hiss of carbonate under her fingers. “Брюс.” [Bruce] His thin lips pressed together at the low but well-known tone. She cocked her head after taking a sip, eyes never leaving his face.

“Who is Alfred Pennyworth?”

Instead of an answer, Bruce raised the cup of hot coffee to his lips. He downed its contents in two long gulps before setting it down on the laminated tabletop with a clunk. “The man who raised me up, before-” His eyes narrowed at some dried-up ketchup specks on the table.

“Before.”

She waited, but nothing more followed. Eventually, Natasha nodded, eyes sliding over to where the waitress ambled into their direction with a pot, ready to refill. Bruce stopped her with a brisk shake of the head, slipped her a $20 bill and told her to keep the change. Natasha then resealed her bottled water and inspected her nails. The red paint on her ring finger was chipped, and she ran her thumb over it.

“So you want to seek him out.”  
Something cynical tugged at the corner of his mouth.  
“Doubt he'll be happy to see me.”

She stopped short of scratching at the flakey paint and furrowed her brows at him. “If anything, he needs to know about the attempt on his life. Maybe others want to give it a go now that Earle's...” She clicked her tongue. Eyes ablaze, Bruce reached into the pocket of his denims until the metal of their car keys dangled from his fingers. “Пошли.” [Come/Let's go] He slid out of the booth and Natasha slowly got to her feet as well.

Outside, the break of dawn ghosted across the sky. She suppressed a shiver at the cold air.

“Know the way?”  
  
He took the proffered bottle of water from her to wash down the acidic taste of coffee.  
  
“да.” [Yes.]

+

They drove for over an hour until the streets became near-empty, the city lights faded out to the occasional street lamp, and the vegetation around them grew more lush and vast. On the passenger seat of the 1990 Jeep Cherokee Laredo, Natasha sat with her feet propped up on the dashboard and fed her driver the occasional handful of chips before the small bag was empty and her fingers greased with fat and salt.

Bruce stopped at a small gas station and motel close to the road around 5:15 am, and Natasha yawned into the collar of her jacket as he went to refuel and pay. When he returned, the brim of his hat drawn down and shoulders hunched up against the drizzle that had set in ten minutes ago, she was surprised to see him come up on her side. Instead of getting back into the driver's seat, he opened the passenger door.

At the gust of cold and damp air biting at her skin, Natasha mumbled something derisive.

When their eyes met, she saw the dark circles under his. Bruce then reached out for her hand.

“Let's get a few hours of sleep.”

+

It was 9:40 by the time they arrived at the Palisades, outside some heavy gates behind which a long and winding gravel path stretched out. At its end, Natasha could see a magnificent large estate looming up through the mist and the damp air that was left after the rain had stopped. She looked to her left and found him staring ahead, eyes unseeing. Upon the hand on his thigh, Bruce blinked the woman next to him back into place.

She squeezed his leg once, face open and alert. “I'll be close by.” Bruce gave a curt nod. With his left hand already on the door handle, he then drew back in a swift motion to reach out for her with his free hand. Cupping the side of her face in his palm, he pressed their mouths together, lips closed and firm. He withdrew from the kiss first, though kept their faces close together until their breathing had become in sync.

“No action. Wait for my signal.”

Despite the close proximity he very well saw disagreement swirl in her eyes. Brushing tender fingers along her jaw, he then stepped out of the vehicle and inhaled the fresh, moist air in what was the first time in 13 years. Getting out as well, Natasha reached for the sniper rifle from the trunk of the Jeep, locked and hidden underneath the spare tire department like the rest of their mobile armory.

Bruce watched her ready the weapon with several expert flips of dexterous fingers. Her facial expression told him just what she thought about his lone-wolf plan. “Ten minutes, then I'm coming in.” Her clipped voice and the sound of the rifle being reloaded told him not to start an argument. Another brief nod, then he was gone, scaling the high obstacle with the practiced ease of someone who had been trained for stealthy infiltration.

After taking her eyes off of his dark silhouette to check the driveway they had come up for any unwanted company, Bruce was gone from her view. Sighing out loud, Natasha then went to find the best position for her and her sniper rifle and found him through the crosshairs after a moment.

+

Bruce made use of the vast premises' gardening to come closer to the main building undetected. The familiarity of the estate hit him the moment he set foot into the areal past the heavy gates. Next to the entrance, there was a lone man; posture and movement indicating an aged physique. He was trimming an opulent bush of wild roses. When he turned around to dispose of a handful of withered petals, Bruce's heart began to pound.

Stealth mode forgotten, he allowed his steps to be heard on crunching gravel. Startled at the sudden sound, the old man whirled around, only to jerk in even greater fright at the tall, dark clothed man standing a few feet away, next to the large but non-functioning fountain.

“Who are you?”

His blue eyes were watery and surrounded by wrinkles. Something in Bruce ached at the fear he saw in them. Seeing his question prompted no answer, the man raised the sharp little garden tool in his hand, adopting a defending stance. Though he exuded a certain kind of frailness, he was a good inch or two taller than Bruce. “If he sent you, I will not make this easy for you.” Bruce made sure to keep his hands visible all the time.

“No one sent me.”

In slow motion, he then slipped off the hood of his jacket and simultaneously his hat. It prompted an audible gasp from his opponent.

“Good Lord-”  
  
The hand which held up the garden equipment started to tremble visibly. “... you... You look like him. Like...-” Despite the still-present threat of the sharp pair of pruners, Bruce looked the elder man straight in the eye. “Alfie, I-” Pennyworth dropped the scissors to the ground. They landed without a sound, muffled by the wet and rich soil. “No, that is... ” Eyes wide, the butler clutched at his chest. Concerned, Bruce stepped forward.

“... M-master Bruce?”

Hearing the familiar term for the first time in over a decade made Bruce's stomach churn. He swallowed.

“Yes.”

Without warning, Alfred reached for him but stopped at the very last second. Up close, Bruce saw the tears.

Once he dared to put a hand on a bony shoulder, two still strong arms wrapped around him tight and held on.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Ten minutes later, Bruce stood in the large kitchen and took stock of aged but well-cared-for furniture. Vague memories of him eying the top shelf where Alfred used to keep the condensed milk out of his reach entered his mind, before the butler's voice shook him out of a reverie Bruce did not remember to fall into.

“A warm beverage should go well with the current situation.”

Bruce gave a nod before looking at the third person in the room. Natasha, still wary after being introduced to the butler, caught his glance. Her eyes traveled to the huge wooden dining table in the corner, and she gave a little tilt of the head to get him to move over and pick a seat. Alfred kept on rummaging around the build-in pantry. “I am afraid I am out of coffee. There are no guests coming over to warrant buying it.”

Alfred's tone was apologizing. Bruce took a chair that was facing the windows while Natasha slipped onto the upholstered wooden bench to watch the opposite direction of the kitchen door. “Tea is fine, Alfred, thank you.” The older man nodded and filled a solid copper kettle under the faucet before putting it onto the massive stove. He kept on puttering around the kitchen until he had produced three cups made from fine china.

They clattered softly as he put them on the saucers, together with small silver spoons. Once he had fetched a small sugar cup and the well-hidden condensed milk from the shelf, the kettle whistled, and Alfred was quick to take it off the stove to pour them each a cup.

“You thought I was sent by him. Why?”

Bruce watched four droplets of milk dissolve in the swirling hot liquid that was rapidly becoming infused with Earl Grey. Alfred stopped stirring sugar into his cup and nodded as he put the spoon aside. “I had a feeling something was up, but I could not pinpoint exactly what it was.”

“You don't need to worry anymore. Earle is dead.”

His clipped words made Alfred catch his gaze. At the piercing chill he encountered, the butler was quick to avert his eyes.

“That... is a relief then, I assume.”

Natasha shifted to cross her legs under the table, and the movement made both men look at her. She pointedly averted them and focused on raising the cup of steaming tea to her lips instead. Alfred blinked two times in a row before he tilted his head with a benign expression. “I will see about preparing two bedrooms on the first floor. Meanwhile, you and Miss Natasha could use the time to freshen up? That is if you wish to.”

The smallest frown was in between Bruce's brows as his eyes slid over to his female, still taciturn companion. He took a mouthful of hot tea, unmindful of its scalding effect on his tongue and put his cup down with unintentional force, making the delicate china rattle upon its saucer. 

“A shower sounds like a good idea.”

+

“Separate bedrooms? Does he think you're still a virgin?”

Natasha scoffed as they walked up the large staircase to where Alfred had told them to. Bruce's brows furrowed anew. “We won't be abusing Alfred's hospitality. If he wants us to sleep in different bedrooms for time being, then that's what we'll do.” Her smirk was tiny but condescending.

“See how that works out for you and your dick.”

“I'll jerk off in the shower.”

His voice was snide in return, and it made her condescension widen as she waved him goodbye on her doorstep.

“You'll miss my pussy by 3 pm.”

+

He braced himself against the wet tiles as he came all over his right hand, panting out harshly through his nose.

Bruce then watched the milky fluid run down the drain and disappear and rinsed his palm before rubbing another round of aromatic-smelling shower gel within his hands and soaping down all of his body for the second time. Having unlimited hot water at his beck and call had become a bit of a novelty in the past few years in New York, and he relished the feeling of it loosening his muscles for another five minutes.

With force, he then twisted the heavy faucet handles shut and reached for a large crème-colored, fluffy towel that lay nearby on a small wooden stool. Once he had toweled himself dry, Bruce tied the towel around his waist and walked barefooted into the adjacent bedroom.

His younger self had no recollection of this particular area of the manor and assumed his parents must have kept the wing for visitors or overnight guests after one of their many soirees and galas back in the days. The carpet was soft under his soles, and the room had a cozy warmth to it that came from a traditional, ornate cast iron radiator in the corner since there was no active fireplace in this particular room.

Bruce's eyes traveled over to the queen-sized bed with its fluffy white bedding and pillows that were neatly placed side by side. Atop the warm, quilted comforter rested a folded, dark-blue pajama, and a pair of slippers stood in front of the bed, and Bruce realized he had forgotten to bring his duffel with fresh laundry along. As he stood and debated whether to put on his old clothes and head for the Jeep, there was a knock.

“Come in.”

It was not Natasha but Alfred who stood in the doorway, silver tray in hand. The cocky smirk on Bruce's lips softened.

“Pardon the disturbance, but I thought you might be hungry, so I made a light lunch.”

Alfred's voice and facial expression were gentle, but Bruce saw his eyes travel across his exposed torso. Bruce never paid much attention to his marred skin; mottled with dozens of old scars, bullet wounds and cuts from various knives He took a bit of pride in the fact that every single one of them was a victory over an enemy unable to achieve their goal. However, Alfred's gaze lingered on a certain, small detail atop his left pectoral.

It was a stylized, cursive-written tattoo with the entwined letters NR in slim, dark ink. Bruce had gone and gotten it after an especially well-paid job that involved eliminating the rich, fat brother-in-law of a lawyer who was speculating on taking over his company since he was already fucking his niece. Any disgust Bruce and Natasha might have developed had paled in comparison to the solid three grand afterward.

“Thank you.”

Alfred nodded and moved into the room to slip the tablet onto a small table by the window. He took in the strewn clothes on the bathroom floor and before Bruce could interfere, the butler moved to hoist them up. “There should be some unworn clothes in your father's wardrobe. Maybe a bit on the conservative side, but they might fit.” At the prospect of wearing his father's clothes, something churned inside Bruce's gut.

“No, I left my clothes in the car. I'll go get them. I'll just put these on-”

He reached for the bundle of worn laundry in Alfred's hands, to which the butler shook his head. “Allow me, Master Bruce. Why don't you get dressed while I go get your bags.” He indicated with his chin at the square pajama bundle. Thinking about the heavy armory in the hidden compartment underneath the trunk, a shiver ran down his back. “You don't have to...” His jaw clenched as he pondered his choice of words.

“--serve me, Alfred. That's not what I want.”

The butler's light blue eyes took on a shining glaze. “But that is what I was meant to do, Master Bruce. I promised your parents to always take care of you, the most precious thing they ever owned.” Bruce swallowed down a Russian expletive that wanted to crawl up his throat and cast the carpeted floor a defiant stare instead. “You should have moved on, not holding on to a ghost.” His own petulance made him grit his teeth.

The older man's features morphed into sad affection as he shifted the clothes in his hands into the crook of his left arm. “You see, all these years, I kept on holding on to the hope of you still being alive.” He paused. “They told me they never found a body, so I hoped and prayed that-” His voice faltered but he cleared his throat. “That whatever fate had befallen you was kinder than death. And now that you are here-”

Bruce raised his head when the pause stretched out longer than before. Alfred's gaze was loving, and focused on his face only; not on his scars, his imperfections, his permanent testimonies of cruelty. “- I can finally fulfill my promise. And there is nothing that I would rather want to do.” At a loss for words, Bruce's eyes flickered towards the window. From that angle, he saw acres of vast fields and barren tree silhouettes.

"Things are different."

Alfred regarded him, waiting for him to elaborate. When nothing followed, the butler put up a brave facade and straightened up. "And I am here to do my best in order to help you figure it out. At your time and pace." He was rewarded with a delayed but visible curt nod. With a resolute move, Bruce then walked over to where he had hung his jacket and thrust a hand into its pocket. Seconds later, Alfred looked down at a key ring.

“There is a dark-brown bag on the back seat. If you could get me that?”

The butler gave a single incline of the head and took the proffered item. “Most certainly, Sir.” Before he left, Alfred paused one last time in the doorway and turned around. A sad smile curved his mouth upon seeing the experimental touches the young man was giving the covers and their expensive high-thread-count sheets.

“Welcome home, Master Bruce.”

 


End file.
